


The Cause

by FalliciousPuns



Series: Fiedler's Llamas [4]
Category: The Spy Who Came in from the Cold - John Le Carré
Genre: Gen, I'm Sorry, Interrogation, Naziism, Torture, Violence, dark!fiedler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-12 16:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11165286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalliciousPuns/pseuds/FalliciousPuns
Summary: “Say thank you,” Fiedler said, licking his lips.“Thank you, Fiedler,” Hans said between uneven breaths.  “Sir.  Master,” he added, terrified of more retribution.Fiedler smiled again.  “Good.”  Leamas thought he saw the corners of Fiedler’s mouth twitch when Hans addressed him as ‘master’.Leamas watches Fiedler work.(Now posted on the Le Carré Archive! lecarrefic.wordpress.com)





	1. Chapter 1

From behind the one-way glass, Leamas watched as Fiedler breathed in deeply, a faraway smile on his lips as if he were enjoying the morning sun, or falling asleep next to a loved one.  Peaceful.

The man tied to the chair in the center of the blank grey room looked far less comfortable.  He gripped the armrests with white knuckles.  A vein pulsed angrily at his temple, his face burning red, eyes bulging.  He let out a strangled gag, tongue lolling pathetically.

Fiedler loosened the rope from around the man’s neck with a sigh.  “Ready to talk, Hans?” he asked.  

Hans nodded.  “Please, please, no more-  Yes I was in the NSDAP, I was, just please-” 

Fiedler rolled his eyes, turning swiftly to the table at the side of the room that held Fiedler’s instruments of torture.  He plucked up a knife and brought it slashing down towards Hans’ hand.  

The man screamed, face screwing up in fear, but his voice died as he saw that Fiedler had stabbed the space between his fingers.  He let out a sob of relief.

“You were lucky,” Fiedler said quietly.  He hid his amusement from Hans, but Leamas could see how Fiedler’s fingers ran over the handle of his knife excitedly.  “Next time, if you don’t stop grovelling you might not be.”

Silence as Hans nodded.

Fiedler sighed shaking his head like a teacher contemplating how best to deal with an unresponsive pupil.

“Listen Hans,” he said kindly, taking the German’s hand in his own. “I am trying to help you,” he said.  Hans looked up, confused.  

Fiedler’s knife sank slowly into the back of Hans’ hand as he said slowly and clearly, “And so I believe I deserve a little respect.”  The prisoner screamed, writhing in his chair like a drowning man.  Fiedler kept his hand still however, continuing to press the knife into the other man’s flesh, twisting the handle with sick pleasure.

Hans was running out of breath to scream with and broke down in pathetic tears.  Fiedler pulled out the knife, eliciting a sob from Hans, and wiped it on a rag.

“Say thank you,” Fiedler said, licking his lips.

“Thank you, Fiedler,” Hans said between uneven breaths.  “Sir.  Master,” he added, terrified of more retribution.

Fiedler smiled again.  “Good.”  Leamas thought he saw the corners of Fiedler’s mouth twitch when Hans addressed him as ‘master’.

“Tell me about your involvement with the Nazis.”

Hans took a shuddering breath, eyeing Fiedler’s knife.  “I- I was a messenger, I transcribed telegrams and relayed them to the Führer.”

“What was the content of these telegrams?”

“They were from the Gestapo- general information gathered from the Allies that would aid in the war effort.”

“I see.”

Hans paused, hesitant about whether or not to reveal more information.

“Don’t be so torn,” Fiedler said, patting Hans on the back.  “When you’ve answered my questions, I will tell you about your wife.”

Hans’ eyes lit up.  His mouth was dry.  “You have her?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

Fiedler smiled.  Coldly.  

Hans stared down at the ground.  After a moment, he began to speak.  

“On the thirty first of January, 1943,” he began.  He spoke for about an hour, at times holding back tears, other times reciting hollowly his secrets.  Fiedler’s eyes pierced him the entire time, aura sharp, as if Hans would cut himself if he dared to return that fierce gaze.

“I’ve told you everything.  I have nothing else.  Please.  Please give me Helen.  Please.”  His voice contained a shiver.

Fiedler went to the one-way glass.  He tapped it, motioning for something to be brought in.  He was smiling.  “Bring in Mrs. Ludhauff,” he said.  

A hospital bed was wheeled in.  Leamas saw that its occupant was strapped firmly to the bed.  A woman- gagged.

Fiedler went to the table piled with instruments and selected a different knife.  This one had serrated edges.

Hans looked from Fiedler to his wife wildly.  

Fiedler lay the knife on Helen’s throat.  She began yelling, the noise dampened by her gag.

“Fielder- Sir- Please- What are you doing?”

“You’re not telling me everything- I’m doing this for you,” Fiedler said.  With delicate fingers, he removed Helen’s gag.  She began crying, the screams were deafening.  

“Please!  Stop!  I’ve told you everything I know!   _ Everything _ !”

Fiedler turned to him, eyes like stone.  “Even about Operation Anchor?” he asked, his voice calm, but easily audible over Helen Ludhauff’s shrieks.

Hans’ eyes widened.  He made to speak, but hesitated.

Fiedler’s smile widened and he drew the knife sharply across Helen’s throat.

It was an odd experience.  Helen’s screams died as blood flooded her throat.  For an instant there was only a small gurgle.

“ _ NO _ !” Then Hans began to scream incomprehensibly, tugging at his bonds, desperately attempting to get to his wife who lay dying, choking on her own blood.  “Please!  Please! PLEASE!  _ PLEASE! _ ” he roared.  He tried to curl into a ball, but he was tied to his chair.  

Leamas saw in horror that Fiedler had left a bit of slack in the rope.  Hans would have the hope of escaping- believing that the bonds were loose enough to slip through.  A misguided hope which would lead to the man into believing that there was some way for him to save his wife.  Leamas shuddered.  It wasn’t until then that he admitted to himself that Fiedler truly terrified him.

Hans was still screaming.  “PLEASE!  Let it end!  I’ll do anything!  Just make it stop-” he cried.   _ Please save my wife _ .  Leamas looked away.

Fiedler leaned down to look Hans in the eyes.  “You want this to stop?” he asked, voice smooth, perfectly even.  

“Yes!  I’ll tell you everything about Anchor- just please!”

“Very well.”  A pistol appeared in Fiedler’s hand and in an instant he lowered it to Helen’s head.  He fired.

 

The noise was over.  For one long moment, there was complete and utter silence.

Then Hans began to scream wordlessly.  Eventually he ran out of breath, but his mouth stayed open in a soundless cry of anguish.  Tears streamed down his face.  He looked pathetic.  Broken.

Fiedler waited until Hans started crying to kneel down in front of him.  He stroked the man’s shoulder.  “Do you know why I killed her?” Fiedler said simply.

Hans’ gaze drifted to Fiedler’s face, eyes foggy with inner pain.

“I killed her to make sure you understand the consequences if you do not obey my will.  I would not have had to do any of this if you’d surrendered your cooperation willingly, no?”

Hans’ eyes were distant.

“After all, you have children too.”

Hans’ eyes snapped back to Fiedler’s.  Leamas saw in his eyes the very purest fear, undiluted by pain or even anger.

“No-” the man’s voice broke.  “Anything.  I’ll do-  anything.”  

And Fiedler smiled.

 

\---

 

“Why did you do it?”

“He was working to subvert communism.”

“But his wife-”

Fiedler stopped walking, turning to face Leamas.  “The sacrifice of one will lead to prosperity of many.  No individual is immune to liquidation, Leamas.”

“And why were you enjoying it?”

Fiedler thought, then began to walk again, Leamas trailing him.  “Within my dedication to the cause and sustainment of communist revolution, in our fight against counter-revolution, I suppose you could say there’s an art to breaking people that many, such as yourself, cannot appreciate.”  Fiedler was hiding something, and Leamas sensed he had wanted to add,  _ and he was a Nazi. _

 

Leamas shuddered.  Mundt was worse, he knew, but he had only ever heard of such fanaticism like Fiedler’s from Smiley’s old stories.  He had never expected to encounter anyone like the interrogator before him.  


	2. The Artist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "works of art don't make themselves"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #noragrets

Another day.  Another interrogation.  A different man this time, strong, unbreakable, confident in his beliefs.  Or so he had thought.

Fiedler had started off with a beating from a long cane, bruising the man’s body until he reeled with shock and pain.  He had continued this way for hours, never once giving the man, Willem, a reason for his punishment.  Now, that shock and pain had turned into anger.  He had no one to blame for this pain but Fiedler, meaning that he would not cave in on himself like Hans had.  

Leamas vaguely wondered why Fiedler had allowed, even encouraged, Willem to rebuild his mental wall against interrogation- getting information from the West German intelligence officer would be much harder now.  But then he saw Fiedler’s hands.  They were completely relaxed.  Calm.  He even wore a smile, as if he were smelling flowers.

“Now, now, Will.  You're here- The West Germans have given you up.  They won't save you here.  They've betrayed you.  You have nothing to gain by hiding information,” Fiedler said, leaning forward until he was uncomfortably close to Hans.  “Why don’t you tell me about what you did in Germany after the war?”  

Willem remained tight lipped.

Fiedler hummed.  “I see you are indifferent to pain.  Whoever trained you must have been remarkable.”  He paused.  “But I assure you, I am far worse.  You remember Joseph?  I’m sure you do, we gave him back to West Germany didn’t we?  He was very fun to play with.”  Fiedler let out a haunting laugh.  

There was a long silence as Fiedler seemed to reminisce.  Then, “I had him laughing, you know.  At the same time that I was using the scalpel.”  Fiedler hummed again, thinking.  He sat down in the chair across from Willem, interlacing his fingers delicately.  “Made sure never to leave scars, though.  Such beautiful skin he had.”

Willem’s grips on the edge of the seat tightened.  Fiedler latched onto the reaction.  

“He was such  _ fun _ to play with.   _ Easy _ .  He had a wife, you know.  Children even.”  Fiedler paused, noting Willem’s shocked expression, his face delighted.  “I see he did not share this with you,” Fiedler said, “you must not have been as  _ close _ with him as I was.”

Willem snapped.  “You fucking monster!  You know perfectly well that he goddamn killed himself because of you, you fucking cocksucker!”

Fiedler blineed in mock surprise.  “Oh no, Willem,” he said, “I assure you, Joseph was the cocksucker in our relationship.”

Willem screamed, thrashing around in fury.  “Go to hell you damn bastard!”

Fiedler just laughed.  From behind the one way glass, Leamas’ heart skipped a beat as it always did when Fiedler expressed his joy.  It broke Leamas’ heart however, that Fiedler could only laugh in perfect enjoyment in an interrogation cell.

“He talked about you too, Willem- he betrayed you.  I remember that well.  There we both were, pressed against each other.  I remember how the skin behind his ears felt, how he laughed as I traced his collarbone with my fingers, how he enjoyed his feeling of powerlessness as I pressed our heads together-”

“SHUT UP!”

“And he told me all about you- he loved you, he wanted to tell you exactly how he felt for his comrade in arms, but he was afraid.  Afraid that you’d reject him for who he was.”

Tears had begun pooling in Willem’s eyes.  Fiedler deduced that Willem had guessed Joseph’s unspoken feelings.

He let Willem stew with that information, let his own mind sew the seeds of regret.

“It’s a shame that he’s dead,” Fiedler said offhandedly.  “He wanted to tell you himself.”

Willem was crying soundlessly, both in mourning for his friend and in anger at being told what he was hearing.

“It’s a shame that you also found him beautiful, did you not?  A shame that you never told him.”  This had been in Willem’s file: he'd had three relationships with men and two with women all in the last three years.  The rest was deduction.

Willem nodded pathetically- unwillingly.  Of course he couldn't help falling in love with his closest coworker.  “I hate you,” he hissed, biting his lip.

“You don't understand,” Fiedler said, stepping closer.  His voice was comforting.  “It was the West German service.   _ They _ pushed Joseph into this.  They didn't help him when he radioed for help, when he knew we were after him-  _ they _ killed him.”

“SHUT UP!” Willem screamed again.  But he was weakening.

“I'm here, Willem.”   _ I’m here for you. _

“Don't stand there acting like you did nothing!  Like he would have wanted you and I to ever meet!  You- He would tell me things- about you!” Willem was stuttering now.  Unsure. 

“It was like he could hear your voice- all the time!  He would stop in the middle of the street- remembering what you did to him!”

Fiedler glided forward slowly, until he was less than a foot away.  He brushed his hand against Willem’s, reverently.  “I am sorry.  I never intended for him to die.”

“Get away from me, monster,” the bound man spat, trying to shake Fiedler’s hand off.

Fiedler circled Willem quietly.  Willem tried to jerk his head around, to keep Fiedler in sight.

Fiedler’s fingers ran up Willem’s neck, tantalizingly feeling out his adam’s apple.  The man suddered.  “Please-” he choked out.  “Don't...”

“Don't you want to know, don’t you  _ need _ to know how Joseph felt?”  Fiedler had struck a nerve.  “I can help you remember him.”

Willem burst into tears, crying uncontrollably.  All the while, Fiedler stroked his hair, muttering, “shhh”, “it will all be alright”, “shhh…”.

Fiedler’s beautiful hands felt their way down to Willem’s hands, never breaking contact.  He was there for him- Fiedler was the only other presence in the world. 

Fiedler leaned forward from behind the interrogation chair, stretching forward to carefully untie Willem’s bonds.  He felt Willem press his own face into Fiedler’s side, sobbing into his jacket.  “God, Joseph, Joseph, I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Willem’s hands were free- if he'd been in a better mental condition he could have snapped Fiedler’s neck, but Fiedler had made sure that that was not an option.  Instead, he lay there as Fiedler lay his praises up and down his body.

“This is… wrong,” Willem uttered weakly. 

Fiedler, body arched over and around Willem from behind, kissing Willem’s neck as he undid the buttons of the man’s shirt tantalizingly slowly, laughed a soft, quiet laugh.

Watching from behind the one-way glass, Leamas felt sick.  Willem, who less than an hour ago had seemed unbreakable, was in tears, sounds of love and mourning being gently pulled from his heart by the fingers and kisses of the man who had tortured him.  

And Leamas was afraid, because there was another emotion there, one that he dared not analyse or acknowledge, because maybe, just maybe, that emotion too closely resembled jealousy.

“I can tell you everything he told me,” Fiedler whispered, taking Willem’s hand in his own, tracing the lifeline with a fingernail.

“Yes please,” Willem sobbed.  That just seemed to make his crying more intense.  Fiedler knew that half of Willem was screaming not to trust the interrogator, the other pleading for a chance to grow closer with Joseph, even after death.  Fiedler could give him that last one, and in return, Willem would share everything.  

As he slowly ran his fingers through the subject’s hair, Fiedler marveled at his own creation- a man in utter inner conflict.  On the one hand, Willem was full of pure hatred towards him for all the pain he had endured at Fiedler’s hands, but at the same time was filled with a desperate sort of love- Fiedler was his only friend- the only one who consoled and mourned with him, his last remaining connection to Joseph.

Conflict can break someone if it is great enough.  A person can become so unsure of what he should do, torn between two options, for example love and hate, that they willingly accept any suggestion.  And oh did Fiedler suggest.

As Fiedler slowly, lovingly, carefully ran his fingers down Willem’s ribcage, feeling with the other hand the manic pulses of love through the veins in his neck, he whispered, “Tell me about your West German organization,” he muttered into the crook of Willem’s neck, words blurred but still understandable.

Willem bent, his head resting against Fiedler’s, belief in his service in turmoil.  And he told him everything.  Absolutely everything.

Fiedler stared lovingly at his work, for that was all Willem was- a piece of art to be shaped and molded and utterly a product of his own desire.  

After all, works of art don't make themselves.

 

\---

 

“Why'd you have to do it like that?” Leamas’ voice was harsher than usual as they left through the long corridor.

“Like what?”

“Pretending that you were ready to love him.  All your actions are to further your shitty government rather than pursue an actual relationship, I know that, but why did you bring up his friend?  Don't think I don't know you could've done it another way- I know you Fiedler.”

Something seemed to strain behind Fiedler’s dark eyes in his hollow face.  “You think I do not form real relationships?” he asked pensively.

Leamas snorted.  “The way you play people off themselves by acting the part of a friend proves that.”

Fiedler stopped.  “This is not about Willem, is it?”

“You can seem such a good friend, Fiedler, but under it all I  _ know _ you're not really my friend.  You just want something from me and haven't gotten it yet.”

Fiedler took a breath as if to say something.  His mouth was slightly open, but then he closed it and sighed.  I wouldn't be telling the full truth if I said you were wrong, but-”

It was too late.  Leamas had already stormed off, and with his long legs Fiedler would never catch him unless he ran.

It was probably better this way, Fiedler thought as Leamas’ heels rounded the edge of the doorframe.

It was probably better this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of this between 11 and 4 AM :>
> 
> PS WHAT DO YOU THINK OF A MY IMMORTAL AU *WINK WONK*

**Author's Note:**

> MIGHT COME BACK AND EDIT THIS TBH??? I JUST WANTED TO UPLOAD IT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE


End file.
